


This is for Motherhood

by The Sad Privateer (meepling)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Family, Family Fluff, Gen, Motherhood, hellhound puppies, mild violence, raising a demigod sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meepling/pseuds/The%20Sad%20Privateer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Monday morning, there's a litter of Hellhound puppies in Sally Jackson's kitchen and a blue Post-It stuck to the fridge.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>(Love, Percy.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	This is for Motherhood

**Author's Note:**

> Finally starting to move some of my stuff to A03. Better late than never, right?

On Monday morning, there's a litter of Hellhound puppies in her kitchen and a blue Post-It stuck to the fridge:

_Hey Mom, sorry we didn't stay for breakfast - you were sleeping and we had to run (Ares already hates me - he'll kill us if we're late). Found these guys in my cabin a little while ago, I guess Mrs. O'Leary found a friend. Watch them for me? We'll be back to pick them up later. Thanx! Love, Percy. P.S.~ Annabeth and Nico say hi. We'll see you Friday, maybe?_

There's a lopsided smiley face beside his name, and a rust-colored smear on the top right-hand corner that could be from anything. The word 'breakfast' is written four times, three of them scribbled out as he had struggled to spell it correctly. Sally peels the blue sticky note gently off the white surface of the fridge, touching her son's spidery handwriting as a fuzzy black puppy the size of a small Christmas tree drools on her slipper. The other three Hellhounds are otherwise engaged - one gnawing on the leg of the table, one relieving itself in a corner, and the last asleep in front of the sink.

Sally looks down at the monster at her feet for a few seconds. Big brown puppy eyes blink lovingly up at her; the beast's tail wags against the floor with a gentle _whump, whump, whump_. She sighs at it, sticking the note back onto the fridge.

_Love, Percy._

She wishes that he'd woken her up, even if it was only to drop in for ten minutes and make her the foster mother for a litter of puppies from Hell. She hasn't seen her son in weeks, and it physically _hurts_ \- she wants to hear his voice with her own ears, hold his hands in her own, see those sea green eyes with her brown ones. She wants to touch him, talk to him, _remember him_ , before he drifts even further away. Before she wakes up one morning and finds that she can't recall the exact shade of his eyes or the tone of his laugh _(or him)_.

Sally looks at that rusty smear on the corner of the blue sticky note and wonders if it's blood.

Against her leg, the Hellhound pup huffs in impatience, and dog snot flecks her calf. She nudges the beast away with her foot. "Alright, alright, I'm getting on it," she grumbles, opening the freezer and pulling out a hunk of beef wrapped in white paper. When Paul walks in half an hour later, she's standing at the stove in her slippers and pajamas, up to her elbows in sizzling meat and being drooled on by an enthusiastic quartet of hungry Hellhounds.

"Morning, honey," he says, kissing her on the cheek and starting the coffee machine without a second look at the mythological beasts in his kitchen before getting the mop out of the broom closet to clean up the linoleum. On his way past the fridge, he stops, his eyes flickering across the blue Post-It. He reaches out and touches his stepson's handwriting with the same kind of reverence Sally had not long before, his finger tracing the spidery lines.

_Love, Percy._

On Tuesday, there's an _empusa_ looming above her face.

Sally doesn't even have time to scream in surprise as she rolls sideways and off the edge of the bed faster than thought, the pillow where her head had been resting a moment before reduced to a smoldering pile of melted feathers.

"What the - !"

A red-eyed girl in a yellow summer dress, with skin as white as fresh snow and mismatched legs - one the shaggy hoofed limb of a donkey, the other a bronze replica of a human leg - bears down on Sally as the woman scrambles backwards on her hands and knees _(and oh gods it's going to kill her)_.

"Where is he?"

"I'm not - what - I don't -"

The _empusa_ advances through the darkness of the bedroom, her clawed white fingers twitching, impatient to sink those wicked talons into Sally's skin and rip her open, make her scream. "Where is Percy Jackson, fool?"

Sally's backed up against the wall, on her knees, still bare-footed and wearing striped flannel pajama bottoms and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. A single beam of moonlight shines in through the window, illuminating a square of the carpeted floor that doesnt quite touch the _empusa's_ mismatched feet. On the bed, Paul snores loudly and rolls over in his sleep, yanking the blanket up over his head. The monster ignores him and zeros in on Sally, pulling back her ruby-red lips with a hiss to reveal wicked vamire fangs. "Where is Perseus Jackson?" she demands again, impatient and angry.

"I don't know!" And it's the truth.

_"Liar!"_

"I don't! What do you want with him?" Sally demands, anger rising in her chest.

The monster snarls and takes a step closer. "None of your business, mortal." In the dim light of the room, her fangs glint. "Just tell me where he is!"

"I don't _know_! And I wouldn't tell you if I did!"

The _empusa_ screeches. "That is a lie!" she cries, but this time she's too loud - behind her, Paul jolts straight upright in bed with a yelp and a curse. It's enough to distract the monster, and as she whirls to size up the mortal man Sally lunges past her legs and plunges her arm beneath the bed, her fingers curling around the leather-bound hilt of a celestial bronze sword.

Paul's yelling something as the _empusa_ snarls in anger and lunges downward at the mortal woman on the floor, and Sally doesn't think as she acts, jerking the weapon out from under the bed and swinging it up. The blade bites into the monster's hip, cutting into the thin material of the yellow summer dress she wears and slicing through her white skin like a hot knife through butter. Time stands still for a moment, the look of rage frozen on the _empusa's_ face, Paul's voice hanging in the dark air, before the monster explodes into a cloud of white dust with a nearly comical _poof!_

The sword lands heavily on the carpet, spotless.

Sally stands slowly. White flakes of monster drift down and get caught in her greying hair like snowflakes, or stardust, sparkling in the the pale moonlight like something friendlier than dead demon particles. On the other side of the door, the Hellhound puppies she's fostering bark loudly. She perches carefully on the edge of the bed, and Paul reaches out to take her cold hand in his own.

"You okay?"

Sally isn't sure. Her son could be on another continent right now _(forget that, another world, another plane of existence, gods, he could be dead)_ and she would never know. She wonders what that says about her, as a mother.

Nothing good, probably.

She squeezes Paul's hand gently, but she never answers his question. She begins to shake, and she doesn't stop for a long, long time. That's answer enough, she supposes.

On Wednesday, she pads into her kitchen at five-thirty in the morning in slippers and a livid green face mask of moisturizing goop that's supposed to help with her wrinkles. She finds a skinny son of Hades raiding her cupboards.

"Nico?" She flicks the light switch, and the dark-eyed demigod whirls on his heel, his mouth full of Girl Scout thin mints. They blink at one another in surprise as the boy chews furiously. He has the decency to look guilty as he does so.

"What are you doing?" It comes out accusing, but Sally doesn't mean it that way.

Nico di Angelo clears his throat uncomfortably, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his black hoodie. The florescent yellow of Sally's overhead light does nothing flattering to his complexion and he looks tired, with dark circles around his eyes and his raven-hued curls in need of a trim. The shadows in the room cling to him possessively. "I'm, uh, I'm here about Percy ..."

Sally's world spins. "Oh _gods_ ..." she whispers, clutching at the edge of the table as her legs turn to noodles. "No, Nico - oh gods, please no -"

"What? Oh, wait - _oh - no_ , no, no, he's not, like, dead or anything," Nico says hurriedly, realizing how she had interpreted his statement. The son of the Dead God takes a step toward her, making awkward hand motions as if he wants to keep her from collapsing to the floor but isn't really comfortable touching her.

Sally lurches forward, sighing in relief, her hands still shaking and her legs still weak from the brief moment of terror. Before she can jump to any more conclusions, Nico spits out his message. "He wanted me to tell you that he won't be around for a few days, and he's really sorry since Friday is, like, special for you guys and all. They cooked up some new quest over at camp and wanted him to come along, so he's on his way to, I dunno, Milwaukee or somewhere I think. He wanted to tell you himself, but it happened really fast and there wasn't any time, so, uh, he sent ... me." The demigod deflates slowly as he speaks, and his last syllable is borderline apologetic. He cards his fingers through his too-long hair and refuses to make eye contact.

" _Oh._ " Sally touches her temple lightly. Emotion wells up inside of her, but she can't identify what exactly it is - sadness or relief or anger or frustration or maybe a little bit of all of those, and something else too. Before she knows why, a tear drips from her lashes and splatters on the table _(but only one)_.

"Um ... sorry. I'll just be, y'know, leaving …" Nico edges sideways towards the door, looking uncomfortable, but Sally jumps him before he can get more than a few steps. He's the only person she's had any contact with in _weeks_ who's up to date on the whereabouts of her son, and she's not about to let him waltz out. Besides, despite his flaws, she's got a little soft spot for the skinny, dark-eyed son of Hades and his awkward, unorthodox charm. At the very least, she senses something broken inside the boy, something that she can nurture and fix if only he will give her the chance to mother him.

So she sits him down at the kitchen table and makes sure he stays there by feeding him French toast and lemonade, and as he eats like he's never seen a piece of French toast in his life she grills him with questions. One by one the Hellhound pups wake up and stagger in from the living room, yawning and flashing pearly white fangs, only to curl up at Sally's feet beneath the table and fall asleep once more, and by the time the hour is up she and this little group of Underworld outcasts have drawn enough comfort from one another to go about their respective business just a little bit happier.

On Thursday, there's no sign of him.

She waits for something, anything, but no news comes of her son. No Post-Its stuck to the fridge door in the morning, no Iris Messages, not even any monsters blasting through the walls. It's not like she should be surprised, but Sally is nervous anyway. Paul is at work and she has nobody to voice her concerns to, so instead she tries to convince herself that she knows he's fine - after all, he's _Percy_ , and that boy could survive anything. But she spends more time staring out the window and worrying about him than anything else.

She proofreads a few pages of her book, goes to the post office to check the mail, slips into a massive fuzzy sweater and takes the Hellhound pups for a walk in the park. She mentally tallies the number of times she glances at the clock until she loses count. The TV is turned on all day, and she keeps her eye on it at all times, on alert for news of any unexpected disasters in Milwaukee or the surrounding area, natural or otherwise.

The day is an uneventful one, but Sally worries far into the night, thinking about her son and about herself, staring up at her ceiling where a few streaks of residual monster dust from the _empusa_ several nights before are visible beside the light fixture. She falls asleep looking at them.

On Friday, it's her birthday.

Sally doesn't like to think about how old she's getting, but she's always down for an excuse to eat cake. Paul wakes her up in the morning with pancakes in bed (the gesture almost brings her to tears - Percy has always been the one to bring her breakfast on her birthday, even when he was little and his offerings consisted of dry Fruit Loops and some ungodly concoction of leftovers from the fridge artfully arranged on a plastic plate) and presents her with a silver necklace that she's pretty sure he can't afford, but it's beautiful and she puts it on immediately. He promises that he'll take her out for dinner and a movie when he gets home. Sally doesn't tell him there's nothing she really wants to see.

The blue Post-It from Monday is still stuck to the fridge. _P.S.~ Annabeth and Nico say hi. We'll see you Friday, maybe?_ Sally brushes the words with her fingertips. At least he was thinking about her. She knows that he had wanted to do more, but the Fates had gotten in the way again.

She misses her son even more today.

And then she turns around, and there's a man standing in her kitchen with a preoccupied smile on his face. If Sally, by this point in her life, hadn't been used to surprises, she would have thrown something at him. Instead she stares. The man is slender, with upturned eyebrows and salt-and-pepper hair, a cell phone pressed against his ear on which two little green snakes are wrapped around the antenna.

"Yeah, yeah, just a second Demeter, I'll be right with you," he grouches into his phone before snapping the device shut with venom. "Hello, Sally Jackson."

"Um. Hi." She watches as he pulls a silver pen and a sheet of paper out of thin air.

"Sign here, please." He offers her the pen and paper, which she takes tentatively. When she looks up again, Hermes is holding out a piece of cobalt blue construction paper, folded in half, which he trades her for the pen and receipt.

A raspy voice echoes in Sally's head. _Quite a son you have there, Mrs. Jackson. Not all boys remember their mother's birthday while they're off saving the world._

The voice is answered by another, deeper one. _He looked better as a guinea pig, though._

_George!_

_What? It's true._

Hermes stuffs his cell phone in his pocket. "Don't mind them. They have no manners." The god winks kindly at her. "Happy birthday, Mrs. Jackson."

Sally blinks. "Thank you," she says, glancing down momentarily at the blue card in her hand. When she looks back up, Hermes is gone.

Sitting down gently at the table, Sally holds her gift in both hands. It's nothing but a simple piece of construction paper folded horizontally in half, with HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM written across the front in big black block letters that try to be evenly sized but don't quite succeed. On the inside, a short note is scribbled in a very familiar spidery scrawl.

_Hey Mom ~ Sorry I'm not there with you. Wish I was. I know we had stuff planned out for today, but maybe we can do it later, when I get back? Have fun with Paul - don't worry about me, OK? See you soon! Love, Percy._

The note is embellished with a hoard of lopsided smiley faces, and the right edge of it is suspiciously withered and black. Regardless, Sally clutches it against her chest. She stands shakily and puts it on the fridge, next to the blue Post-It.

She wants to cry _(the same way she wants him back, her little boy with scabby knees and dirt on his face and no front teeth who still believes in the Tooth Faerie and the Easter Bunny) _but she doesn't. Instead, she smiles.__

On Saturday, there's no evidence of any mythological activity whatsoever besides the Hellhounds in the living room. It's the same story on Sunday, and when Monday morning comes around again, there is once more a litter of hungry mastiff-sized puppies awaiting Sally in the kitchen, but this time she's expecting them. On Tuesday, she is hopeful for some news of her son and his quest, perhaps from the dark-eyed Nico di Angelo rummaging through her cupboards in the odd hours of the morning, but none comes. Same on Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday.

On Sunday, Sally is broken.

Paul has the day off, but they don't go anywhere. It's a stay-at-home event, and the wind is cold and the rain beats against the panes of the windows, and there isn't even be anything decent to watch on television. Sally needs a day to herself to be sad and broken, and Paul seems to realize that he can't fix this break. At ten, he kisses her on the cheek and heads to bed, leaving her sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket covered in cartoon whales, staring glassy-eyed at the television screen, where she stays until midnight. When the clock on the wall dings twelve, she straightens her stiff legs to get up.

And that's when she hears it.

The rasp of a key in a lock and soft _click!_ of the door snapping closed, followed almost immediately by a crash as somebody walks headlog into the hat rack in the darkness, then a voice cussing ferociously under its breath in Ancient Greek.

Sally stands and hurries to the kitchen, holding her breath, not quite ready to believe what she already knows. But then she sees him there, and she believes it _(like she believes in miracles and legends and myths and all kinds of impossible things)._

"Hi, Mom." A whisper, accompanied by a sheepish grin and a sparkle of sea green eyes in the darkness. "Sorry about the noise."

She can't help herself. She giggles, and it grows into a genuine laugh that she smothers into her son's neck once she's got her arms around him. She has to reach up to hug him - she'd forgotten how much taller than her he was. "Hi, baby," she whispers, and he smells like sweat and monsters and ocean and Percy, and she can hear his heartbeat in her ear, his heart that pumps his blood through his veins, blood that she shares, blood that came from her. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too. Sorry I wasn't around for your birthday," he says, his arms tight around his mother. "Did you get my card?"

She nods against his shoulder, and it occurs to her that she really, _really_ loves this wonderful kid. "It's on the fridge."

At the mention of the refrigerator Percy's stomach makes some sort of ghastly dying sound and Sally laughs again, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the forehead before releasing him from her grasp and setting about the business of feeding him. Flicking on the light, she notices that his hair is getting shaggy and falling across his eyes again, and that he's got a new scar on the bridge of his nose. He's a bit more gaunt than she remembers, more haggard and weary _(she wonders what he's seen, what he's heard, what he's lived through)_ and he looks just a little bit like a homeless person. But then he grins at her, all teeth and dimples and blind honesty, and she knows he's still Percy.

She asks him about his quest, and as she heats up leftover chicken noodle soup from lunch and drops bread in the toaster he pets Hellhound puppies and tells her about his adventures with Annabeth and Grover and the Hunters of Artemis, about vengeful water nymphs and the Underworld and the destruction of several buildings that he's not claiming responsibility for, but he may or may not have had a hand in. When he's done, Sally shakes her head and runs her fingers through his hair and tells him that she's just glad he's okay.

Then he glances up at her. "What about you, Mom?"

Sally smiles a little bit.

It's four-thirty by the time either of them get any sleep, and by then they've talked about everything, from the important stuff like war and love and life and death and the future, to the even more important stuff, like blue candy and the personal habits of satyrs and who's going to the Superbowl. Sally's sitting on the couch with her fingers in her son's hair when she falls asleep, and he's already been out for a while, with his head in her lap so he can drool on her knee. As she drifts off, is occurs to her again that she really loves this kid.

On Monday, she wakes up alone on the couch at noon.

The left knee of her pajama pants is stiff where her son had drooled on them, but she doesn't mind. Sunlight streams in through the window, falling across her face and warming her skin. She doesn't move for a while, watching the shadows creep across the 1960s-style floral fabric of her thrift store furniture and listening to the city. On the floor, a Hellhound sneezes on her ankle.

Sally gets up, passing the kitchen door. A white piece of paper on the table catches her eye.

_Hey Mom, I love you. I'll see you soon, OK? Have a great day! ~ Percy_

She hangs it on the fridge _(and there it stays, next to blue Post-Its and birthday cards and broken promises that are forgiven)._

_(It makes her smile.)_


End file.
